


I Am Disappeared

by randomsquare



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Musician Killian, bartender Emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: CS AU Two-shot. Bartender Emma. Musician Killian. Emma watches on with glee when the insufferably cocky lead singer of the night's band strikes out in her bar. Maybe she even... helps. But at closing time, with a winter storm rolling in, she realizes she has also cost him his only chance at a warm bed for the night. Feeling slightly guilty, she reluctantly invites him upstairs.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This little two-shot is loosely inspired by the Frank Turner song of the same name. It was conceived at 4am during The Great Fanfiction Dot Net Outage of 2015, and was half-written into the notes app of my phone, where I promptly forgot all about it, until now.**

**They say to write what you know, and I know how to pour a middling scotch, deflect come-ons from middle aged men, and spot an intoxicated person at 50 yards. And then there is my undeniable fondness for scruffy guitar gods. This seemed like the logical marriage of those two aspects of myself. Enjoy.**

* * *

 

He's no Bob Dylan.

And yet, Emma still found herself pausing from where she was cutting up lemon slices to watch the band of the evening close out their set with an energetic rendition of Baba O'Riley. The scruffy frontman was in top form, positively growling out the lyrics into his microphone, and pulling out some very Eddie Vedder-esque moves with his mic stand, much to the delight of the front row. Then just as they descended into the final chorus, he threw his mic to his bassist, downed the last of his tumbler of rum, and leapt right out into the crowd. He was grinning wickedly as he surged forward, held aloft by a sweaty, heaving mass of fangirl adoration, his arms raised in a jubilant V.

It was very rock n' roll.

It was also  _very_  against the house rules, something Emma had specifically reminded them before soundcheck, as she'd gone through the usual security rundown with both the band and their manager. A little fact Scruffy Guitar God  _clearly_ remembered, because when he lifted his head a moment, and saw her standing there on the other side of the bar, arms crossed over her chest and looking thoroughly unimpressed, he winked one of those baby blues at her, and blew her a kiss.

_Ugh. Musicians._

She really hoped August wouldn't find cause to rewind back the tapes for the night, because that was a fuck up Emma _did_   _not_  want to be held responsible for. She wasn't prepared to lose her job over the rum-fueled punk rock heroics of an Englishman with guyliner, no matter how hot he was.

His lyrics were simple. Punchy. Catchy punk rock anthems which oscillated between self-deprecating tales of love gone wrong, and odes to living a better life. And though he might not have been saying anything new, she couldn't deny that his band had...  _something_. A something that had managed to pack her bar to capacity on the coldest night of the year so far, and sell them out of their entire stock of Corona in two hours flat. A something that had captured the gathered crowd from the very first chord, and held them firmly in the palm of his hand for the entire duration of the show, his pack of loyalists screaming every word back to him.

He's no Bob Dylan. But unfortunately, he  _was_  good.

* * *

Storybrooke, Maine wasn't exactly a common stop on the touring musician route, seeing as it was about as far north as you could get without a passport, and best renowned for freezing rain and a distinct lack of anything approaching culture. Most bands didn't make it further north than Boston, or Portland if you were lucky. And The Rabbit Hole, Emma's place of work, usually erred on the cover band side of things to liven up the odd Friday night. There was a Neil Diamond impersonator, for instance, who lived locally who did pretty well with the over 50 set.

Which is to say, Emma had no idea how a punk rock outfit out of London managed to not only find themselves in her tiny town in the first place, but also to drink her completely dry of Captain Morgan in a few short hours. It was something she intended to clear up with their manager before he could sneak out into the night. He looked the type. But the takings had been good. Better than good, even. She had no idea where all of those people had even come from, but they'd turned out in droves. If the band hadn't taken all the rum and disregarded her security protocols, she might have been tempted to invite them back.

Last call had been and gone by the time they were almost done packing up, leaving just a few of the band members and their various hangers-on, as well as the familiar form of the town drunk, Leroy, who was slumped over on his usual bar stool, waiting on one of his poor, put-upon brothers to show up and give him a ride home. Emma was just checking through the initial receipts when she heard the tinkle of coquettish laughter, and looked up to see him again.

The bartender has two natural enemies: glitter and lipstick. Both cannot be removed by your standard industrial dishwasher, and if you're unlucky,  _and Emma always was,_ you'll still be finding traces of them weeks later, whenever it is most inconvenient. Run into the hot Sheriff whilst you're scouring the ice-cream freezer at the store? There's a random piece of glitter on your face. Scary town mayor comes in for her customary glass of the expensive Merlot you keep in the back just for her? There's a perfect red lip outline on her glass.

The universe deemed it to be so.

The girl that was busy hanging off Scruffy Guitar God's arm, eyelashes all a-flutter, was that rare double-whammy; her lips were coated with enough to silver glitter lipstick to make Lady Gaga proud. If she stood in the middle of the dancefloor and rotated, she could double as a disco ball. Emma despised her on principle. That, combined with the memory of the crowdsurfing incident, and the distinct lack of rum left in her bar may have made Emma a little sour on them. Just a little. So when the girl took time out from her busy hair-tossing and giggling schedule to approach Emma's bar and ask for a glass of water, Emma felt justified in fucking with them. Just a little.

"Wow," Emma leant forward to whisper in a conspiratorial way, motioning back at the guy currently pretending he wasn't checking on the state of his hair in the bar mirror. "Is that...?"

"Killian Jones!" The girl practically levitated as she squealed out the words. "I know! Isn't he  _gorgeous_?!" Sure, Emma thought. If narcissism and guyliner were your thing. _  
_

"Good work," Emma winked, as she slid the glass of water over towards her. The girl tried and failed at not looking like the cat who got the canary, blushing a deep scarlet. She gave the girl a moment, before flipping the switch. "I'm kind of surprised though."

The girl's smile faltered a little. "Surprised?" She asked, taking the bait. Emma  _really was_  a terrible person.

"Yeah, I could have sworn he swung the other way, if you know what I mean..." Emma plastered on a look of bored indifference, as she started placing the last of the wine glasses back onto their rack.

"Killian Jones?" Glitter Lips let out a disbelieving cackle. "Yeah, there's no way he is anything other than 100% straight. I mean, have you  _heard_  his music?"  _Not until tonight._

"Well," Emma reasoned, "People used to think Ricky Martin was straight... Although that one seems  _so_  obvious in retrospect...With those teeth..." She could feel her audience losing focus, so she leaned forward again, as if delivering the juiciest gossip she's heard in years. "All I'm saying is, our bar-back caught  _someone_ in a compromising position with the drummer in the green room, and it sure as hell wasn't the bass player."

The Rabbit Hole didn't even  _have_  a green room. Hell, they didn't even have a bar-back. Just Emma. And Ruby, when she decided to show up.

Emma was going to hell.

Glitter Lips absorbed all of this with a frown forming. "Oh," she said finally, her tone clipped. She glanced back at her expectant beau, who was still fussing with his hair, trying to perfect that 'just rolled out of bed' look, an action that seemed to take on new significance in light of this new information. "I see."

"Just wanted to give you a heads up..." Emma murmured as the girl nodded absently, gliding away looking like Christmas had been cancelled. Emma took the opportunity to shield most of her body from view behind the register as she watched the fallout of her dark machinations.

It was every bit as satisfying as she had hoped for. Glitter Lips's firm goodbye and speedy exit. Scruffy Guitar God's look of utter disbelief as he stared after her. A revenge plot well-executed. That is, until he swiveled his head around, and fixed those eyes determinedly on Emma, who was still wearing something of a triumphant smirk.

_Shit._

And he was approaching fast, all steely-eyed swagger. Emma hurriedly turned her attention back to the register, scooping out a handful of quarters to arrange into dollar sized stacks on the counter.

A small cough sounded. The clearing of throat. "Excuse me, lass." His speaking voice was just the same as his singing voice, lilting and  _way_ too easy on the ears.

Emma didn't lift her eyes from her stacks of coins, as she counted them out, four at a time. "Sorry, busy," she said quickly, not sounding sorry in the least.

Undeterred, she saw him lean into her peripheral vision, lowering his voice. "What exactly did you say to her?"

"Who me?" Emma asked with as innocent a tone as she could muster, glancing up briefly.

"Yes, darling. You," he drawled, leaning on the bar with his elbows, and one eyebrow cocked.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Emma replied, still letting the coins in front of her occupy the most of her attention. "I'm just closing up."

"And Denial is not just a river in Egypt." Emma looked up at him properly then, dropping the last of the coins onto the counter. He didn't look mad, exactly. There were none of the tell-tale signs of anger Emma had come to expect from people before they exploded. No clenched jaws or clenched fists. No tension in his shoulders. No throbbing forehead veins. He hadn't come over to chew her out. Or at least, he didn't seem to be. If anything, he seemed... amused?

"You mean Glitter Lips?" Emma relented, just a little.

He let out a soft chuckle at Emma's made up name for his date. "Aye. That'd be her." His smile was rueful. "Glitter Lips. Any idea why moments after speaking with you she decided to flee the premises as if the very hounds of hell were snapping at her heels?" It hadn't been  _that_ dramatic. It had been more of a power-walk, if anything.

"I'm a terrible conversationalist?" Emma offered, holding her hands out as if she was confessing to a serious crime. Scruffy Guitar God liked that, if his reluctant grin was any indication.

"So I see," he said, tapping his chin with his fingers. "But why do I suspect foul play on your part?" He let a pointed finger trace the air between them, indicating all of Emma's suspicious aura.

"Maybe you're just not trusting enough?" Emma countered. She was  _definitely_ going to hell.

He paused for a moment, as if giving that idea some thought. "No," he answered finally, threading his hands together to support his chin, as he leaned on the bar with his elbows directly in front of her. "That's not it."

He was persistent. She gave him that.

"Well, I have to finish locking up now since I'm the only one who bothered to stick around until closing, and I need to settle your  _rather extensive_  bar tab with your manager before he makes a break for it. So you can either accept that you will be spending the night without a bedazzled groupie, or you can't. Either way, I'm busy."

And if he had anything to say to that, Emma didn't stick around to find out, sweeping the rest of the coins into a plastic pouch, and taking off into the back room.

* * *

He was still there, sitting on the cinder block retaining wall just outside the main doors when she emerged forty minutes later, bundled into her parka, having finally balanced the registers, put the cash in the safe, and gone over every surface in the place with Spray Kleen. He was wrapped in a long black leather jacket that clearly wasn't suited to the weather, and his teeth were chattering.

The sight of a stranger lurking around after close would usually have Emma reaching for the pepper spray, but even in the dim glow of the security lighting, he cut a rather pitiful figure, a huddled black shape against the white of the falling snow. Still, she placed her keys between her fingers, just to be on the safe side.

"Uhh..." Emma paused, letting him notice her standing there. "The bar is closed. In the immortal words of Semisonic,  _"You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."_ Unless your intention is to turn into a human popsicle?" It had to be below freezing, and with the cold wind blowing off the Atlantic, he wouldn't last out there for long. Not with that jacket.

"Ah." He got to his feet then, stamping his boots on the spot in an effort to stay warm. "I was waiting for you, lass."

"Me?" Emma clutched her keys tighter in her fist, but he didn't step any closer.

"Aye. You. The bartender with the heart of gold who is now responsible for the predicament I find myself in."

Emma's stomach dropped. "And what predicament is that?"

"The one where I'm stranded outside of your bar in the middle of a fucking blizzard because you scared away my last chance for a warm bed for the night." His tone was light and breezy, but his expression was deadly serious, his blue eyes unblinking. Emma fumbled with her keys, feeling the shame beginning to warm her cheeks despite the cold.

"That sounds like a problem your manager could solve," Emma murmured, avoiding his eyes.

"It does, doesn't it?" He grimaced. "Only my bloody manager only booked the one room at the inn for five lads to share, because he's a cheap bastard, and our bass player snores. Nearly as bad as our manager does. I would  _literally_ rather freeze to death."

"Your van?" Emma offered as a last resort.

"Otherwise occupied. My drummer and your bartender. The brunette?"  _Fucking Ruby._

"So you want me to do... what exactly?" Emma asked, although she already had a sneaking suspicion she knew.

"You must live around here." He opened his arms wide to indicate the uninterrupted expanse of white. "There's no car in the lot. Let me stay with you." A pause. A fluttering of lashes that was frankly, beneath him. "Please?" His tongue darted one to slide over his bottom lip, and Emma watched its progress with a kind of stupefied amazement. He really was pulling out all the stops.

"How do you know my husband isn't coming to pick me up?" Emma replied haughtily, crossing her arms against her chest.

He held his left hand up, and wiggled the second-to-last finger. "No ring." The observant idiot didn't even have gloves on.

"I'm not in the habit of inviting strangers back to my place."

"I'm Killian Jones," he said at last, holding out a hand, as if expecting Emma to shake it. Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd shaken hands with someone under 60.

Emma snorted, ignoring his hand. "Yeah, I know." She lifted her chin, indicating behind him, where a row of posters bearing his name and visage had been tacked on the wall near the entrance.  _Killian Jones & The Dashing Rapscallions. _Clearly humility wasn't part of the marketing strategy.

"Right," he grinned, running a hand through his snow-flecked hair. "And you are?"

Emma thought about not giving him the satisfaction. But it really was so fucking cold just standing there.

"Emma."

"Well,  _Emma_ ," he said, smiling with triumph despite the fact that his lips seemed to be turning blue. "It seems we aren't strangers anymore. And deep down,  _you know_  you owe me one. All I require is a little bit of couch space. Maybe a blanket, if you're feeling charitable..."

"You could still be an axe-murderer," she hedged, her attention focused on her boots now, as she compacted the snow around her into a neat semi-circle. "Or a Republican."

He snorted. "Would you prefer to read my Wikipedia page first? Or do you require a detailed questionnaire on my political affiliations? Because, I have to warn you, I'm freezing my bollocks off out here."

Emma's head snapped up. "You have a Wikipedia page?"

"Aye," he chuckled. "Why do you think Glitter Lips was so eager to keep me warm on this cold, cold night? Everybody likes a romp with a rockstar." His tone was a lot more bitter than Emma would have expected from the guy with the apparent narcissism.

"Fine." Emma relented, blowing out foggy breath of defeat. "You can stay on my couch.  _But there will be no romping!_ And I will need to see this  _alleged_  Wikipedia page."

It was amazing, the transformation in him, upon learning that he would not, in fact, be perishing in a Maine snowstorm after all. His entire face lit up, and he straightened to his full height, pulling out his phone from his pocket and making a few taps, before holding it out to her with a dangerous grin.

Emma took it, and turned it around to read the screen. It was his Wikipedia page, complete with date of birth and accompanying photo. Son of a bitch.

"After you, Emma."


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't mean to frighten you, lass, but you appear to have been robbed."

Emma pushed Killian out of the way, practically tripping over the threshold in her rush to get inside, head swiveling around to take in the damage, coming to an abrupt halt in her front room. She heard him close the door behind him, and felt the instant relief of having something solid between her and the blizzard outside. She waited until he came up behind her, still rubbing his hands together to get feeling back, that she shot him an exasperated look, shucking off her gloves and tossing them on the bare kitchen counter with barely concealed disdain.

Her apartment looked exactly as it had that morning. It's not like it was trashed or anything. True, it was a little sparse on the home furnishings and personal knick-knacks side of things, but Emma had never been a pack rat. When she'd moved to Storybrooke two years previous, taking August's recently vacated apartment above the bar, she'd managed to fit all of the detritus of her broken-down life into a single duffel bag, and she hadn't managed to spread out too much in the meantime.

Emma shrugged. "I'm not sentimental."

"No?" he asked, taking in the rather spartan living room set-up. "You're not a nun, are you?" He gave her a suspicious once-over, one eyebrow raised to say he somehow doubted it. "Because these are some very monk-like digs you've got. Although... I have to admit the alcohol-selling gig makes an excellent cover."

Emma just snorted in reply. It wasn't  _that_  bad. The apartment had come partially furnished, after all. It had the basics. There was a fridge, a microwave, a stool by the counter. In the living room portion there was even a ratty old couch, a wooden chest, and August's abandoned record collection shoved against one wall. It was the scuffed, checked linoleum and standard white walls that really gave the place that  _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest_ vibe. Though the dated, mismatched furniture probably didn't help matters. But Emma had never really cared about that stuff. She wasn't one to turn down complimentary furniture. She sure wasn't going to buy her own to replace it. The more you have, the harder it is to leave when you need to, and Emma had long ago learned to pack light.

"I must say, it doesn't help much to unravel the mystery that is Emma Swan." It took her a moment to work out precisely why his last statement bothered her so much, beyond the obvious. Just a moment, until she whirled around to catch him holding up a piece of mail between his forefinger and his thumb, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Her electricity bill. The one she'd left unopened on the counter that morning. The one that had her full name printed on the envelope.

_Shit._

"Hey!" she said, making a grab for the letter, but he was too fast for her, shuffling back a few paces and holding it higher than she could reach, like he was a playground bully out to steal her lunch money. Emma wondered if he realized she was not above sucker-punching him to get what she wanted. It had certainly worked wonders on the playground bullies of her youth. The growing look of panic in his eyes indicated that he had most probably just hit on that very realization, as he took in the determined set of her jaw, and her hands gathering into fists at her sides.

" _Uh, uh, uh_ ," he tutted, raising both of his hands in front of him in a peaceful gesture, the offending letter still clutched between his fingers. "I'm sequestered in the very austere quarters of a virtual stranger, and not a soul knows where I've got to." He shrugged, lips twisting into a grin. "Think about it! You could be an axe murderer!" A dramatic pause. "You could be a Republican!" Emma just shot him an unimpressed look. "Turnabout is fair play. Don't you agree, Swan?"

The continued use of her last name was another dig, but it came wrapped in a sound enough argument, Emma was reluctant to admit. It was all she could do to grunt her assent, stepping forward to snatch the envelope from his grasp, just as he began fanning himself with it.

"You could always just go back to your room at Granny's..." She suggested, as she threw the letter on top of her refrigerator, out of view. "I'm sure it's toasty warm in there, what with all of those snoring bodies pressed together..." His smug smile disappeared at once, replaced with something more akin to a puppy that had just been kicked.

"You wouldn't be so cruel." Emma had to give him props, it was a stronger woman than her who would be able to kick the owner of that heartbroken look out into the cold. He was laying it on really thick, his eyes twin blue orbs of sadness. Emma could be a bitch, but she wasn't actively evil.  _Necessarily._

She just waved a hand, to let him know he was off the hook, and headed for the chest behind the couch that housed the extra linens and blankets, lifting the lid to search for a spare down comforter. "You can stay. Just don't touch anything."

She looked up to see if he was okay with her caveat, to notice that he'd naturally gravitated towards the ancient turntable set in the corner, beneath a poster of Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo trudging through the snowy streets of New York arm in arm, practically radiating youth and promise. He was already pulling the records from their shelf to examine the covers.

"What did I just say?" Emma grumbled, as she pulled out the blanket she'd been searching for, letting the lid fall shut with a thud. He startled at the sound, but didn't pause in his thorough examination of the record collection.

"You're a Dylan fan?" he asked, his eyes lightening with some measure of interest, indicating the poster, and Emma rolled her eyes, dropping the blanket on the couch to make her way over to stand beside him.

"August, that's the guy who I'm renting this place from, is. All of this," she waved a hand to indicate the poster, turntable and shelves of records, "Belongs to him. He left it all here when he got married. I'd never even  _seen_ a vinyl record until I moved in here." She paused a moment, considering the implications of being honest with this guy. "But yeah, I must've played every album on that shelf at least a hundred times since. I guess you could say I'm a fan."

His lifted his eyes from the cover of an album that hailed from the oft-maligned Christian phase, to meet Emma's gaze. " _Don't Think Twice, It's All Right_  is my favorite song in the universe," he confessed, indicating the poster. There was a flash of hesitation in his features, as if he wasn't sure if he should continue, Emma's eyes drawn to his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard. "My Mum used to play it around the house a lot when we were little. It's been my favorite song my whole life."

Emma didn't miss the plural there.  _We._ A sibling. Maybe more than one. But there was something else too, something deeper than nostalgia teasing at the end of his words. Something like... regret, almost. Loss. Maybe that.

"Mine is _Boots of Spanish Leather_." The admission tripped off her tongue before she could stop it. She winced, closing her eyes as she waited for the inevitable comment on how  _sentimental_ it was, but to her surprise, it never came. She opened her eyes instead to find Killian examining her rather closely, much in the same way he had the album covers.

He cocked his head to the side, holding her gaze for a long moment before speaking at last. "I think you and I have more in common than you think, Emma Swan." Before Emma could even hope to consider that too closely, he indicated the last record he had pulled from the shelf, the one with the cover with mirrored the poster tacked to the wall. "May I?" Emma only nodded, watching as he crouched down, lifted the turntable lid, and slipped the record from its sleeve with reverent fingers. After a moment, the upbeat fingerpicking of an acoustic guitar filled the room, followed by Dylan's husky drawl, advising  _"Well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe."_

They sat in silence as the song played out, Killian on the floor by the turntable, Emma having retreated back to the couch, both physically and mentally. She wasn't quite sure what to do with this quiet, thoughtful Killian Jones. She hadn't really considered there might be someone of substance hidden beneath that cocky, and yes,  _attractive,_  exterior, and now that she'd seen glimpses of one, she wasn't sure exactly how to handle it. Cocky Killian she could fend off with her trademark snark. Quiet Killian was a whole different kettle of fish.

As Emma thoughts warred silently from her position on the couch, Killian leaned forward to lift the needle before the next song could begin, sitting back on his haunches as he placed the record carefully back in its sleeve, tucking it back onto the shelf.

He turned his gaze to Emma, whose thoughts ebbed away as their eyes locked, before he walked over and plopped down on the couch beside her, bouncing up and down on the cushions, like a middle aged mom in a mattress store. "A little cramped," he admitted, stretching out his legs to indicate the length discrepancy. "But I daresay the alternative is out of the question?" There was hopeful edge to his voice, but just enough bravado to give her the courage to knock him back.

"Not a chance." He grinned anyway, leaning over to pull the comforter across, wrapping himself in it like he was the filling of a fluffy white burrito. As he closed his eyes, nuzzling into the fabric with his cheek as he savored the warmth, Emma could not deny it made for an adorable tableau. A thought which had her on her feet in a split second, backing away towards her room.

"Bathroom is down the hall to the left. My room is to the righ-." Her cheeks colored as she cursed internally. "Not that you'll need to know that. There's more blankets in the chest if you get cold, and there's milk and juice in the fridge, if you get thirsty."

"No kiss goodnight, Swan?" The smirk was still there, but it was a half-hearted attempt. He knew the answer already.

Instead of responding, Emma just retreated to her room, slamming the door between them before she could do something stupid, like actually realize maybe he wasn't entirely the cocky idiot she'd thought he was.

* * *

It took her a long time to drift off to sleep with the knowledge that someone else was out there, in her space. And she without a lock on her bedroom door. Not that she really thought he'd abuse that, exactly. As far as strangers went, he seemed pretty nonthreatening. But a locked door is better for more than just keeping out intruders. It has a way of keeping out the fear and the unknown quantities just as well. If only she had a lock on her door.

Maybe that was why the dreams came that night, they could tell she was unsettled. The dreams were the same as they always were. More nightmares, really, than dreams. The parade of familiar faces and familiar rejections. In her dreams she ran from all of them. Rode pirate ships across the waves, towards something better. Towards someone, a compass guiding her way. But wherever she was going, she never reached it. In the end, she was always trapped, steel walls closing in. Trapped in an elevator, plunging straight down. She always woke up before she hit the bottom.

She woke up screaming. She always did, when she had that dream. That nightmare. Only this time, there was a hand warm against her back, soothing her back into wakefulness, and it was this sudden awareness that had her at full battle stations, jumping out of her bed, flicking on her beside lamp, whirling around to confront... Killian Jones.

Killian Jones was sitting on her bed in all his sleep-rumpled glory, hands raised in surrender, a sheepish expression creeping onto his face.

Emma's equilibrium was a little off, from the dream, and the sudden movements, and she reached out a hand to steady herself on the night stand, but she didn't take her eyes from her intruder.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" It's the first thing that tumbled out, the first of many questions she had for the man currently scratching behind his ear with a hand he should be using to defend himself from all the righteous fury Emma was about to unleash on him, the fury she could feel bubbling up in her throat. "WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IN MY ROOM?!" She stumbled forward a bit, her hand grabbing at her bedside lamp, and she clutched the base in her hand, just in case she needed to brandish it as a weapon.

"Whoa, lass!" He stood up then, hands still raised.

"Don't  _whoa lass_ me, buddy!" Emma snarled, raising the lamp in her hand slightly, so he sees she is armed. "You didn't wake up to a stranger in your bed!"

" _On_ your bed. Not  _in_ your bed," he hastened to correct her, as if that was a crucial detail.

"You have five seconds to explain yourself," Emma said, letting her voice fill with cool menace, "before I toss you outside to the blizzard. And if I don't like your answer..." She cast a short, meaningful glance at the window.

He nodded slowly in understanding of her threat, taking a deep breath. Emma cocked her head to the side, indicating the countdown had begun.

"I heard you. In your sleep." Another ear scratch. Boy was nervous. He  _should_ be nervous. "At first I though the gallant thing would be too ignore it, pretend I hadn't heard." Emma resisted the urge to snort at his use of the word  _gallant._ Who did he think he was? A medieval knight? "But you didn't wake up. And then you starting screaming." He shrugged, beginning to slide his hands down to his sides by inches, as though Emma wouldn't notice if he did it slow enough. "My brother Liam used to have night terrors when he was young. Terrifying episodes, sometimes nearly an hour of just bloodcurdling screams, like he was terrified of his own insides." He let his hands drop all the way to his sides. "I used to rub his back, when they happened. It seemed to calm him some. I'm sorry if I overstepped, I just..." His gaze dropped to the floor. "I overstepped. I'm sorry."

And with that, Emma felt the indignation flow from her body. Genuine contrition. Emma hadn't expected that. Nor had she expected such an innocent explanation, and now she'd gotten one, she felt a bloom of shame color her cheeks. She loosened her grip on the lamp, letting it fall back onto the bedstand with a clatter. "No, I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, smaller than she would have liked. Then again, Emma wasn't all that great at admitting when she was wrong. "I completely freaked the fuck out, and I overreacted."

His gaze shot back up at once, blue eyes seeming to be gauging her seriousness. "No, lass, I shouldn't have come in. It was stupid of me to think that-" His words were cut off when Emma shoved him back down onto the bed to get him to stop rambling.

"It was sweet," Emma said simply. "Misguided, and you are lucky I didn't brain you with my lamp, but... sweet. So... thank you." Killian didn't say anything in return, his eyes studiously avoiding her own, but she could have sworn she saw the tips of his ears turn pink.

"Want some hot cocoa?" She asked, when the silence had grown a touch too awkward.

"Oh god yes."

* * *

Making cocoa turned out to be a bit of a process. Emma couldn't find her only saucepan at first, and then, when she finally found it she had Killian's bemusement to contend with, as he wondered aloud why she didn't just use a kettle, something Emma didn't have. A little fact that seemed to leave him positively aghast, as he began muttering under his breath something about "American philistines."

"So..." he began, when she slid his mug of cocoa over to his side of the counter. Unaccustomed to guests, Emma only had one bar stool, a cracked vinyl specimen which had surely been spirited upstairs from the bar at some point, so Killian had dragged the blanket chest over at some point to use as his own personal chair.

"So..." Emma replied, blowing on the top of the her drink to cool it down.

"Is the bar yours?" He asked suddenly, causing Emma to accidentally swallow her first mouthful too soon, scalding her throat.

"I'm sorry?" Emma managed to splutter, as she felt the pain radiate down her esophagus.

"The Rabbit Hole. Does it belong to you?" He was gripping his mug firmly between his hands, but his focus was on her, waiting, interested.

"You think I'd name my bar The Rabbit Hole?" Emma snorted, shaking her head. "The bar belongs to August. Same as this apartment does. He's the boss, I guess. I just do all the work," Emma said with a self-deprecating smile, which caused Killian's brows to furrow together. "He's really not that bad," she hastened to add, feeling the need to defend her boss. "He used to be a bigger part of the picture, back before I knew him. He ran the bar practically on his own, and lived in this apartment. But a couple years ago, his priorities changed. He got married, had a kid." Emma shrugged. "I showed up at the right place at the right time, and now I manage the day-to-day, and in return I get to stay here for practically nothing, with free reign over his record collection." She grinned.

"I do reserve the right to judge a man who just leaves his records behind." Killian grumbled, and Emma resisted the urge to laugh at the scandalized look on his face. "That's just poor form, that is."

"Oh sure," Emma said teasingly, leaning forward slightly. "And I just bet you take all of your records out on the road with you?"

"Oh but if I could," he clutched a hand to his heart dramatically, and Emma rolled her eyes. "Alas, our fortunes as a touring band being what they are, they are currently laying around in a box in some shabby basement flat in Soho. But had I a brick and mortar pile to call me own? You can bet I wouldn't leave them under the guardianship of the current tenant of my depressing bachelor pad. No matter how lovely the caretaker." He waved a hand forward, indicating all of Emma's flannel-pyjama glory.

Emma resisted the urge to snort again. She opened her mouth to defend her apartment, which he'd definitely insulted, but closed it again just as quickly. He'd also kind of complimented her, no matter if he really meant it or not, and she guessed that made them kind of square.

"Always wanted to work in a bar?" It was a stupid question, and Killian surely realized this, because she heard him wince a second after the question slipped out. Or maybe he'd just burned his tongue.

"Every little girl's dream," Emma cracked, before she took pity on him. "I don't know. It works for me. I get to wear flat shoes every day, and no one expects me to be perfectly friendly all the time." Now it was time for Killian to snort in amusement. Emma reached her elbow across the counter to nudge his own, indicating she wasn't impressed. If anything, his smile grew wider.

"And Storybrooke? You're from here? Originally, I mean."

And Emma's heart sank a little. An origin story? That's what he wanted?

"Uh, no. Not really. I grew up all over." She paused, wondering how much she felt like telling this stranger. This kind of nice stranger she was never going to see again anyway. What did it matter if he knew about her? "I bounced around a lot of foster homes. Even when I aged out of the system, I never really found that place, you know? Where you just know you belong?"

"And is Storybrooke that place?"

Emma shrugged. "Maybe. But someone once told me home is the place where, when you leave, you just miss it. I guess when I leave, I'll know."

Emma looked up from her mug to see Kilian watching her quietly, considering her almost. She was half afraid she'd see pity in his eyes, after she'd let slip about being an orphan and all, but to her relief it wasn't pity that she saw there. Something more like he was trying to figure her out. She wondered if that could be more dangerous.

"What?" she asked, when he said nothing.

"You're just not quite what I expected." Emma almost laughed.

"And...what did you expect?"

"Honestly?" There was that ear scratch again. She kind of wanted to play poker against this guy. She'd wipe the floor with him. "I don't know. I guess I didn't think we'd have so much in common."

"Do we?" Emma wondered aloud.  _Did they?_

Instead of answering, he laid his left arm flat on the countertop, rolling up the sleeve of his jacket with his right hand, revealing a network of raised pink scars running from his elbow to his knuckles, standing out against pale skin. Emma resisted the urge to run her fingers along the lines of them, to feel the ridges where the staples came out.

"Tyre blew out on the van in the middle of the night, halfway through Arizona on our first US tour. Caught Will completely unawares, poor bastard. He swerved and rolled the van right into a ditch. I don't remember much, knocked my head pretty hard, but we think I must've punched a window to get out." He shrugged, pulling his sleeve back down until it covered the worst of the marks. "Three surgeries and the tendons are still fucked." He turned his hand over slowly so it was facing palm up, and clenched his fist together, Emma noticing for the first time the way his hand shook with the effort, before he relaxed his grip. "Took two years of physical therapy to be able to play simple chords again. I wanted to be the next Jimi Hendrix, and now I've mostly been relegated to pretty-boy singer. Sometimes the lads feel a bit bad for me and chuck me a tambourine every once in a while, but on the whole, I'm bitter about it."

"That blows." It was lame, and it was all she could think of to say. And yet, to her surprise, Killian laughed.

"Yeah," he nodded. "It does. But I guess... I guess it's just one of those things. You either let it sink you, or you don't."

"And you didn't let it," Emma answered simply.

"Right." He said, chancing a glance back up at her face. "Something tells me you know a fair bit about that."

"A bit," Emma shrugged in agreement, feeling like they were moving into dangerous territory with this.

"I think that deserves a song," he said, standing up suddenly.

"A song? A song from you?" Emma asked, wondering what the hell had just occurred.

"Me? Pfft. I don't serenade on the first date, Swan," he said simply, moving back to the corner which housed August's records.

"Date?!" She called out, still frozen to her seat. But he just winked, pulling out a familiar record cover from the shelf, and expertly dropping the needle at precisely the right moment.

He returned to stand in front of her when the song began, eyes shining, and she could feel the tears begin to well up in her own eyes despite her better instincts. She wasn't sure what it was about this guy, but he had a way of sneaking through her defenses like a fucking ninja.

So when Bob sang  _"I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss,"_  and he leaned forward and kissed her, she held him close and kissed him back.

* * *

When Emma awoke, it was after ten and she was alone. She paused to listen, but there was nothing to hear, just that familiar silence of Storybrooke the morning after a snowstorm. Not so much as a dog bark, or a distant sound of a snow plow. As she expected, her apartment was empty, no indication that anyone had ever shared the space, save for the blanket she found neatly folded on the arm of her couch. Not so much as a note.

He'd clearly made van check on time after all.

But really, what  _had_ she expected? He was a rake, who used his good looks and not inconsiderable charm to bed-hop his way across the USA, to spare himself the indignity of sharing a double room with four other guys. She knew this. She knew that he'd used her for her warm lodgings, the same way she'd inadvertently used to him to stave off her nightmares, and now for all intents and purposes, they were square. A satisfying exchange. No need to even bring sex into it.

So why did she still circle her apartment twice, eyes peeled in vain for a spare scrap of paper? Because they  _hadn't_ had sex? Because she hadn't just been some groupie he'd followed home? Because they'd, god forbid,  _bonded? Pathetic._ With a groan, Emma fell back onto her mattress, covering herself over with her comforter until her standard white apartment walls were obscured from view. She didn't need this shit.

She hadn't accomplished much by the time her shift began at two. She'd managed to shower and choke down a bowl of Cheerios, but little else, unsure of what exactly it was she usually did to fill the time. When she did finally make it downstairs, she was none too surprised to find Ruby leaning against the bar, flipping through a magazine, the mid-afternoon lull in full swing.

"Angling for employee of the month?" Emma asked over her shoulder, taking some perverse pleasure in watching her friend whirl around in alarm. It was an expression Ruby quickly managed to school into one of bored indifference, tossing a brown curl over her shoulder, and haughtily turning her attention back to Harry Styles's illegitimate triplets, irritated at the interruption.

Until, that is, there was the tell-tale buzzing of a phone on silent, and Ruby immediately reached into her jeans pocket, pulling out the device. The look of bored indifference quickly vanished as she read the message, and began replying with fingers flying so fast Emma only saw the blur of red nail polish. And then her eyes fell on Emma, who was still standing there, wondering if it was the right moment to mention August's strict No Phones At Work policy. She gave the security camera trained on them an apologetic shrug, in case it helped.

And then Ruby handed her the contraband item, before she could properly refuse, her eyes dancing with some measure of new mischief.

"Rubes?" Emma asked warily, knowing that look.

"Just read," Ruby urged her, tapping the phone in Emma's hand with one scarlet fingernail. "Trust me, you  _need_  to see this."

Figuring that she was already guilty by association, Emma shrugged, squinting to examine what it was that Ruby had deigned to show her. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest when she realized what it was she was looking at. It was the same Wikipedia page Emma had seen last night, complete with Killian Jones's photo and date of birth. But Ruby didn't know about that. Any of it. As far as she was concerned, Killian was just the hot Englishman who'd fronted the band of the drummer she'd fucked in the back of a van. She glanced back up at her friend, confused. "Yeah. Scruffy Guitar God from last night has a Wikipedia page. So?"

Ruby let an exasperated sound gather at the back of her throat, urging Emma to scroll down with some frantic miming.

Emma rolled her eyes at the dramatics, but turned her attention back to the article. A little bit about his childhood. Emma bypassed it; it felt too much like prying. There was a small section on his previous band,  _The Jolly Rogers_ , but the majority of the article was taken up by his last five years with  _The Dashing Rapscallions._ Their two first studio albums. The growing interest in the industry press. The punishing touring schedule. The near-fatal van crash which almost ended their careers. The ensuing band member shuffle. The comeback album.

She couldn't lie. It made for a compelling read. But it was the very last paragraph that really got her attention.

_Killian Jones was last seen in the company of a snarky blonde bartender that he would very much like to see again when The Dashing Rapscallions tour the North East in April. And if said bartender should examine the contacts on her phone, she might possibly discover a pretty-boy singer's phone number saved under K. If she were so inclined to keep in touch, that is. He hopes so.  
_

She didn't dive for her own phone immediately. She didn't want to give Ruby the satisfaction. So instead she calmly handed Ruby's phone back, dodging her expectant look to serve a waiting cluster of college kids their pitcher of Sam Adams, taking her time to check their IDs with a suspicious amount of geniality. It wasn't until her coworker had disappeared into the back for more ice that she made her move, pulling her phone out of her pocket and practically barricading herself in the walk-in refrigerator, one hand poised on the handle in case Ruby tried to open it from the outside.

It was right where he said it was, right under K.  _Killian Jones._ Two of them, actually. A cell number and another longer one with a mess of prefixes she didn't recognize, which probably meant it was his English number. She opened up a message conversation with the former.

_I got your message. Or more accurately, my friend Ruby (I believe your drummer is acquainted) assaulted me with your Wikipedia page until I'd read your message. Very smooth, Mr Jones. Even if I'm sure referring to yourself in the third person is a sure sign of narcissism. ES_

There was a pause. An agonizing moment, enough time for Emma to wonder if the couple of hours on the road to distance himself from it all hadn't made him regret reaching out, to regret getting to know the snarky bartender with all the hang-ups and defense mechanisms.

And then those tell-tale three dots appeared, as he typed back, and Emma could feel the roiling in her gut.

_Thank you, I think ;-) KJ.  
_

And then a moment later;

 _Am I to understand this means that you_ also _wish to see me again?  
_

Of course there was a winky-face. It was Killian Jones. There  _had_ to be a winky-face. But if she wasn't mistaken, there was also something like nervous anticipation creeping into that question. Emma took a breath, thumb hovering over the keypad as she considered her answer, considered another meeting with the scruffy musician who annoyed and challenged her in equal measure. The scruffy musician who'd seen her at her worst, and had stuck around to calm her down. The scruffy musician who'd kissed her like she was something special, and not something broken.

_I wouldn't be averse.  
_

She lost her nerve at the last moment, trying to keep it cool. Was it really that hard to type a simple 'yes'? It was three fucking letters. Y - E - S. She did. Of course she fucking did. But no, she had to play it coy. Why did she always have to play it coy?

But her trademark cool response didn't seem to deter him.

:-)  _We'll be back in Maine in April. But we're staying in Boston in February to record our new EP. I could maybe take off for a few days...  
_

Emma smiled, imagining the flash of those blue eyes, those soft lips curving into an encouraging grin, and typed out her answer.

_Good._

* * *

**A/N: In this story, Killian is a weird amalgamation of two of my favourite front men, Brian Fallon and Frank Turner, but with more guyliner. If you know much about either of them, you'll know which parts I have stolen from whom, to create this Killian Jones Rock Star Frankenstein's Monster of mine. There are also some clumsy attempts at subtext through song/music. I tried. You get points for trying, right?**


End file.
